Wood looks over his right shoulder, signaling and exits off the freeway. “I don’t know. It just seems weird, doesn’t it? You haven’t had a dream in forever and now all the sudden you’re dreaming about some random red-eyed demon.” He clears his throat. “There’s all sorts of lore on dreaming about demons. Some say angels come to you to warn you – help you.”
I scoff. “Angels, Wood? Not likely. We’ve never come across one. We don’t even know if they exist.”
Wood’s mouth turns down and he shrugs his shoulders, mumbling, “That doesn’t mean anything and you know it. Just because we haven’t seen one doesn’t mean they aren’t real.”
I cross my arms and try not to roll my eyes at the absurdity. When it comes to religion, I don’t have a full grasp on what’s real and what’s not. There’s never been any evidence of Heaven and so I can’t bring myself to believe in it. That might make me blind or faithless or whatever, but why do I have to put my feet into one belief? Can’t I believe in a higher power and leave it at that? Sure, I’d like to think we go somewhere better than this place after we die, but I have no proof. There’s something hardwired inside me that questions everything I can’t see or touch. Wood and my dad would argue miracles and faith push us to believe in God and Heaven, but I’m not so sure. I’ve always been pushed to believe in God because dad said so. Maybe it’s me being defiant, but I believe in what’s right in front of me, and all I see is hell. Monsters, demons and everything else that’s bad with the world. That’s what I believe in.
Rubbing the back of my head, I decide to go with it. “So, angels. What else do you think it could be?” Now that I think of it, the only plausible explanation as to why I’m finally dreaming would be because of something supernatural. I hate to admit it, but that does makes sense. I grew up in this life. Things don’t just happen on accident. Everything happens for a reason.
Wood turns north on a busy street, shifting The Sting into a higher gear. “I actually came across a book a few years back and supposedly there are beings that come to you in dreams as birds…or sometimes other animals, though birds are the most common. They warn you of your impending death.”
My forehead and nose crinkle and I give him a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about glance. Is that why he was asking me about birds earlier?
He rolls his eyes. “You need to read a book, Declan.”
I pop him on the shoulder with the back of my hand. “Shut up.”
He laughs, sufficiently satisfied with pulling my chain. “Legend has it that Strix—that’s what they’re called—are able to move about in the dreams of humans to let them know their death is near. And then the dreamer is given a choice. Either make the good choice, or the wrong choice. If the bad choice is made, the books say the soul goes straight into Limbo—or oblivion or something—and gets pulled and manipulated until its turn into something sinister.”
I adjust in my seat, not liking where this conversation is heading. “Something sinister? Like a demon?”
“Something like that.”
“Dammit,” I say, rubbing my eyes.
Wood pulls into a restaurant and puts the car in park. “But you didn’t see a bird. You saw a woman. It couldn’t have been a Strix. You aren’t supposed to be able to see them in their human form.”
Oh. Makes sense. “I guess. But,” I say, getting out of the car, “who supposedly tampers with the souls that go rogue, or bad?”
Wood slams the door to The Sting and walks next to me as we make our way inside the chain restaurant. “Mara. Think of them as the complete opposite of Strix. They’re evil sons of bitches. Once Mara get hold of a soul, there’s no telling what they’ll do to it.”
Maybe I do need to do some more research. I’m supposed to be at the top of my game. “What are they? The Strix and Mara, I mean?”
Wood pulls the heavy glass door open, giving me an apprehensive glance. “Witches.”
My shoulders slump. And now the odd side look he gave me makes sense.
I’m not particularly fond of witches. With their spewing of bodily fluids and dead animal carcasses to cast spells, they give me the creeps. My body shudders. “Witches, man.” I shake my head.
Wood sits down in a huff at a booth and I do the same on the opposite side of him. The orange fabric clings to my jacket and I quickly pull it off my shoulders.
“There are some good ones out there.”
I level my eyes at him over the laminated menu. “Not any we’ve met.”
Wood shrugs a shoulder and chews on the inside of his lip. “True, but we’ve never met a Strix. They’re supposed to be the most kind of all the covens.”
“Supposed to be,” I scoff. “I thought they weren’t real.”
Wood sets his menu down and tugs at his hair. “Dude, ghosts are real. Demons are real. Damn werewolves,” he whispers, “are real. A coven of nice witches is completely possible.”
Spinning the ring on my left pointer finger, I decide it’s best not to dwell on probably isn’t real. “Yeah, well. It wasn’t a Strix in my dream. Just some girl and a douchebag demon. It was nothing.”
“Wood!” I whisper-yell into the darkness. “Where the hell are you?”
We arrived in Iowa City early this afternoon, and immediately got down to business. We made our way to the family’s house to get eyewitness accounts and electromagnetic readings. The house was off the charts with energy. There was no doubt in my mind something was there, we just had to figure out what it was.
Because we couldn’t solve the case right then and there, it was clear we needed the house to ourselves, free of anyone or anything to tamper with our investigation. The family graciously agreed to stay in a hotel so we could clean house.
It seemed like a simple cut and dry case. Poltergeist activity.
While the presence never seemed destructive or mean, it was scaring the children, the family admitted. In our eyes, having a family live in fear was unacceptable. Our job has always been to put families at ease. Once that was accomplished, we could move on. But until then, they were priority number one.
“In here!” Wood calls from the living room downstairs.
I quickly trot down the stairs with my flashlight in hand and find him sitting at the coffee table reading a newspaper that looks to be older than our dad.
“Look,” he says around the flashlight in his mouth. “Edwin Gallegos died here in 1899. Says he committed suicide on the second floor.”
My mouth turns to the side. “Where’d you get those?” I ask, pointing to the stack of papers on the coffee table in front him.
Wood shakes his head. “Dude, I told you the family left these here for us to go over.”
I shrug. “You did?”
“Yeah. While you were upstairs gathering readings, I sat down with them and they gave me the rundown.”
Huh. I must have been too worried about getting accurate readings. “Did Edwin live here at one time, too?”
Wood pops the flashlight out of his mouth and shoves it under his arm. His eyes scan the papers in front of him feverously. Shuffling through paper after paper, he settles on one old, yellowish document, holding it a few inches from his face. “Wow,” he breathes, “Yeah. And he was born in the house, too.”
“That would explain why he’d still be here. Any relation to the family?”
Wood sets the paper down and shakes his head. “Not that I see.”
“There has to be a connection somewhere,” I say, rubbing my hand down my face.
Wood piles all of the papers into a stack in the middle of the table. “I think the connection is the house, Declan. It wouldn’t be the craziest thing. This could’ve been the only place he knew. 1899 was a long time ago. He probably spent all of his time here.”
That’s true. Anchors don’t necessarily have to be people. Sometimes it’s a place. A house. A car. Hell, a room can keep a spirit bound to earth.
Another knock sounds upstairs and my eyes narrow to the celling. “Think it’s Edwin?�
�
Wood stands and takes hold of his flashlight. “He’s the only lead we have.” He pulls out a recorder and waves it in front of his body with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Let’s go see if he’ll talk.”
Turning for the stairs, Wood follows close behind me. When we reach the master bedroom, I stand on one side of the bed while he makes his way to the closet. Hitting the red button on his recorder, Wood speaks, “Edwin Gallegos, show yourself.”
Another knock. It’s instant and my eyes shoot to Wood. A small smirk pulls on his lips and he nods. He loves this so much. And honestly, so do I. This job is intense.
“Gotta do better than that,” I taunt. Edwin may be some restless spirit, but he’s frightening the family. We need to confirm it’s him and he has to go. We need to put him to rest.
We attempt communication for almost two hours. A few knocks there and a couple of cold spots here. Nothing concrete. He knocked down a picture off the wall and even got bold enough to touch my shoulder, which left a small red mark. It didn’t upset me, it just meant we were closer to finding answers. I live for these moments.
Finally, as the grandfather clock in the hallway begins to chime three in the morning, we discover a small voice on our recorder.
“Well, I’ll be dammed.” I shake my head as I listen to the shaky voice say ‘Edwin,” on the recorder. “That’s our guy.”
“Sounds like,” Wood agrees. “We need to research a little more. Let’s get some shut eye and head to the library later. Maybe they’ll have information on where he’s buried and we’ll deal with it then.”
I shove the recorder in my back pocket and nod. Other Pursuers would have no problem sneaking into places during off-hours. But breaking and entering isn’t really our style. Plus, dad would have our asses if we actually got arrested for B&E. We try to stay out of the headlines. Waiting is the only option we have.
“All right. Let’s get going and I’ll call the family in the morning. If we’re lucky, we’ll be out of here by lunch.”
Wood turns his flashlight off, thanks Edwin for talking and we walk out of the room, down the stairs to exit the house. My eyes feel heavy as I make my way to the driver’s side of the car. These non-stop days are beginning to weigh on me.
God, I hope we find answers tomorrow. I need a break.
“Cremated?” Wood says, pinching the skin between his eyes with his fingers. “Dammit.”
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my head and put the manila folder full of Edwin Gallegos’s information down on the table. “Looks to be that way.”
“Doesn’t look like we’re getting out of here by lunch, man.” He stands from the wooden chair and begins to pack up our stuff.
“Wait,” I say, stopping him. “It says he was Lashith. And if I remember right, that religion usually won’t cut a boy’s hair until he’s three years old.”
Wood sits back down. “Right, and?”
“And isn’t it customary for the mother to keep that lock of hair?”
Wood rushes from his seat, darting into the stacks of books, returning with a Lashith bible. He searches through the table of contents and flips to a page.
He smiles. “You’re right. She’s usually buried with it—that is if she’s buried and they didn’t cremate her, too. But we don’t have his mother’s name.”
I shuffle through Edwin’s file. I recall seeing a woman’s name earlier. “Ah, there it is. Leona Gallegos.” I point to the paper. “And it says she was buried in the cemetery on the outside of town.” Thank God for tiny miracles.
Wood closes the book and returns it while I finish packing up our bags.
“I hate this part,” Wood complains when he sits down in the passenger seat of The Sting.
“Same here.”
We don’t normally have to desecrate bodies in a cemetery. As a matter of fact, we’ve only done it a handful of times. Neither one of us is thrilled about it, but in the words of our dad, “You have to do the things normal people won’t do so you can be extraordinary.”
Sometimes he’s a real pain in my ass.
Together, Wood and I huff all the way back to the hotel and wait for the rest of the town to go to sleep.
“Jesus Christ, Declan,” Wood grimaces, shoveling dirt out of the deep hole in the ground. “I don’t remember it being this hard the last time.”
I grunt as I toss another shovel full of dirt onto the grass above us. “That’s what she said.”
Wood drops his shovel on the ground and picks up the bottle of water, taking a long swig. “Shut up.”
I laugh. “You’re out of shape. Maybe you need to go to the gym when we get home.”
He picks up the end of the shovel and hits mine, knocking it out of my hand. “Take your own advice, old man. You’re looking pretty tired over there.”
Bending down, I pick the tool back up and spear it into the earth. I am tired, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Shovel after endless shovel, we finally hit a hard surface and I thank whomever I need to that we’re almost done. I need to sleep for about three days to catch up from this case.
Wood usually gives me a hard time if I complain too much, making jokes about how brittle and old my bones are because he’s younger than me. I usually let it roll off my back – it’s just brotherly jest – but man, sometimes I wonder if he’s right. Maybe I am an old man. The more we’re on the road, the more I feel like I age.
Grabbing the lip of the hundred-year-old casket, I use every ounce of my strength to lift the lid. It doesn’t budge. Grunting, I plant my feet firmly to the ground, giving it another hard pull. Finally, after four good, hard attempts, I finally get the damn thing open. At no easy feat, let me tell you.
The lid cracks as I open it wider and inside we find the bones of Leona Gallegos. Way passed rotted and decomposed, I quickly find the lock of hair in her grasp and grab it.
“Ahh,” I whine, trying not to overthink the fact I just brushed hands with a dead corpse. “Got the holy water?”
“Yeah,” Wood says, picking it up.
“And the blessed oil?”
“Yep.”
“And the lighter?” I say, handing Wood the hair.
“Got it,” he answers.
“All right, then. Let’s do this.”
Wood splashes the hair with the holy water as I rise on my tip toes to pour the oil on the ground above us, creating sacred ground, which is needed for the deceased to enter Heaven…or whatever. Like I said, I don’t know exactly where they go after this, all I know is it puts them to rest. That’s all that really matters to me.
“Hair,” Wood says, offering his hand.
Heaving our bodies out of the hole, Wood places it on the ground with the holy oil and I flick my lighter, setting the hair ablaze. We watch with worn-out eyes as the yellow and orange flames disintegrate what was once Leona’s most prized possession.
“Connected objects, man.” I shake my head.
It’s well past one in the morning, but I twist the cap on a bottle of beer and take a few frantic gulps. The liquid makes its way down my throat and into my stomach instantly warming my body.
Wood looks at me with curious eyes from the driver’s seat but doesn’t say anything.
I take another swig and he huffs.
“What?” I ask.
He shifts into a higher gear and moves to the fast lane, passing cars as he flies down the highway. “Nothing, man.”
I narrow my eyes but turn away from him, looking out into the dead of night.
“It’s just…”
Knew he couldn’t keep it to himself.
“…You’ve been drinking an awful lot more lately.”
That’s probably because we’ve been going non-stop since last month and I’m getting burnt out. “Yeah.”
He scoffs. “Yeah. I’m starting to worry about you.”
That’s my job. “Well, don’t. I’m fine.”
“Fine?” Wood hisses. “You’re pretty far from fine. It
’s not just the drinking. It’s the not sleeping and the lack of dreams.”
I set the bottle of beer down in the drink holder and drag my hand down my face. “Look, man, I’m just overly tired—I’m so damn tired.”
Wood sighs, his clutch on the steering wheel turning his knuckles white. “I know. At least we’re going home for a bit.”
“Yeah, but…” I’m cut off by the ringing of my phone. It’s dad. “Hey,” I answer.
“Hey son, I’ve got another case for you.”
I stifle my groan.
Home. I was so close.
I rub my eyes and grit my teeth. “Okay, what is it?” Gotta be a good little soldier.
“A small town just outside of Salem has had a string of odd deaths. I want you and Sherwood to go check it out and get back to me.”
Blinking, I force myself to wake up. “Can you email me the details?”
Wood looks over at me with an annoyed expression. I know he doesn’t want to say it because he’s constantly trying to make dad happy, but he’s pissed we aren’t getting a little time off. This job has a way of eating at you, and I think he was ready for some down time, too.
“Sending it now. Can you get there by tomorrow night?”
I pull out the map in the glove compartment. “Probably. Should be about an eighteen-hour drive.”
“Good. Call me when you have an update.” And he hangs up. Well, love you, too, dad.
I push the END button on my phone and shove it into my front pocket. “Christ, I wonder if he talks to mom like that.”
Wood chuckles and then falls silent. “Another case?”
“Yeah. Massachusetts.”
“Dammit, Declan,” he utters, sounding just as tired as I am. “That’ll take us all night.”
“Yeah. Let me drive.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No. I’ll wake you up in a while.”
I slump in my seat, cross my arms and recline my seat. My knees hit the dash but it doesn’t hurt enough to make me move. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Again?” Wood asks.
I take a deep breath and spit some mouthwash into an empty cup. “Again.”
Enchanting Wilder Page 3
